


only i know where i'll land

by bruised_fruit



Series: headcanon compliant [1]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Biting, Choking, Light Verbal Humiliation, M/M, Pre-Canon, Self Esteem Issues, Under-negotiated Kink, stealth trans character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 18:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19179271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bruised_fruit/pseuds/bruised_fruit
Summary: He smiles again, and for once Davenport can return it without a thought.





	only i know where i'll land

**Author's Note:**

> you look at me in disbelief. i look at me, also in disbelief

“That’s all for the requisitions,” Davenport announces, watching the human man smile at him from across the workbench. He looks exhausted, but the smile is genuine. They've been preparing for weeks, and this is the mark that they're done preparing, they're ready.

“Thanks, Captain.”

Davenport scratches the back of his head, unused to the formality.

“Well,” he says, watching as Barry leans back in his stool, “please let me know if you have any last-minute proposals for me. Highchurch and the twins don’t have many material needs for their research, so I’m happy to dedicate extra time to securing your supplies.” Barry nods, warm, and Davenport fidgets a little again. “But uh, try not to make it too last minute. Next Monday is our press conference, and I’d like us to be done with preparations by then.”

“Of course,” Barry says. “I really appreciate it. Honestly, I’m still so thankful for the opportunity to be on this mission.”

He smiles again, and for once Davenport can return it without a thought. “You’re more than competent,” he says.

Barry leans forward. “Kind of old for a human on this type of mission though, right?”

“Well, this isn’t space exploration. This is unprecedented.”  He doesn’t mention that they’d encouraged him to hire the young, the inexperienced with field work, the not-vital for the IPRE’s continued functioning. No need to bring up that they’d put a gnome in charge of the mission, that the crew make-up had been _limited,_ to put it nicely. “You, Highchurch, and the writer are all at the top of your fields. The twins are brilliant, too, but I’d be lying if I said Lup’s reputation garnering the project some attention wasn’t important to me.”

Barry blinks at him, and Davenport goes on awkwardly, “if we blow up like the Fantasy Challenger, I want them to remember us.” Then he balks, “Not that-- I mean…”

“You think that’s a likelihood?”

“That’s what they keep saying to me,” Davenport says, somewhat abashed, and he’s surprised by Barry’s angry expression.

“That’s bullshit. I oversaw part of the construction of the ship. Your engine is genius, why would they imply otherwise?”

Davenport shakes his head. The IPRE recruited him back in secondary school after years of playing with the concept that would become the bond engine. Throughout college and grad school, he’d had the Institute’s full support. This is an old sore spot, though, and since being appointed captain of this mission, he’s privately been hoping he’ll make discoveries so grand and world-altering that he and his crew will be revered for centuries to come, his parents will be proud of him, the Institute will really respect him, he’ll _matter_ …

“It’s important to err on the side of caution,” Davenport says with as little bitterness as he can, watching Barry shrug off his lab coat and slump down on the couch in the corner of the room. They’d given him the reins, but he’s well aware that the mission and its associated projects failing would be devastating for the Institute.

He takes off his glasses and places them on the table, turns to Barry, and says, “I’m just praying it’ll all go as smoothly as possible. Any error would be on my part, and I’ve worked my ass off over the past few months to account for any possibility. I’m just... young, and this is high stakes.”

Barry still looks unhappy with that, but then he furrows his brow. “Maybe it’s because I’m a human, but I haven’t really been thinking of you as all that young.”

“Oh, uh, you’re a bit older than me, actually. I’m 42,” Davenport says, smiling wryly. “White hair is just a common racial trait for us.” At Barry’s embarrassed expression, he goes on, “I think I’m one of five gnomes here at the IPRE, I won’t hold it against you. I’ve been mistaken for an elf child before.”

Barry leans back, face red, and squints his eyes to look at the ceiling in the dim light. There’s an awkward couple moments of silence, and Davenport considers leaving before the human speaks again.

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. But the fact that you’ll be leading us is comforting.”

Davenport slides off the stool to join Barry on the couch, grateful that the lighting and his skintone hide the embarrassed flush spreading across his face. When he settles down at the end of the couch, stiff, he says carefully, “Thank you, it means a lot to hear that. Besides, this is far from a suicide mission.” His ears flit back. “I’m not sure why I keep framing it like that... I’m so excited, I’ve been building to next week for almost a decade now.”

Davenport jumps when Barry claps a hand on his shoulder good-naturedly. “It’s going to be great,” he says. His hand is heavy, and warm, and calming, and stupidly, Davenport leans into him, and with a fluid action he’ll spend a century quietly hating himself for, he presses his mouth to Barry’s.

Instead of reciprocating, Barry makes a startled noise and pulls back.

“Fuck, _fuck_ , sorry,” Davenport says, moving away too.

“No, I mean...” Barry puts a hand on his face—the other still on Davenport’s shoulder—and he squeezes his eyes for a moment. “I just wasn’t expecting-- and I mean, I’m straight, mostly…” Internally, Davenport weighs outing himself, dispelling the Alter Self that only marginally improves his sex life, but Barry continues, “but if it’s just for tonight… I-- I mean--?”

Wordlessly, Davenport nods, pushing aside the clatter in his head, and this time it’s Barry who initiates a kiss, surprisingly rough, and it’s sweet, too, but stuff like this has never been about sweetness.

When they pull apart, Davenport fumbles with Barry’s belt for a moment before Barry grabs his hands, dwarfing them. He undoes his jeans, face flushed red, and nods at Davenport before gripping himself through his underwear.

For a moment, Davenport stares at him. Without considering darkvision, doing something like that must be relatively innocuous, but his mouth is dry as he kicks off his trousers and underwear. He’s stupidly hard already, and before he tries to meet Barry’s eyes again he mumbles, “You don’t have to touch me or anything.”

“O-okay,” Barry says, fumbling for a moment before pulling out his cock and stroking himself. His eyes squeeze shut, and it’s endearing, almost. Davenport pauses, watching him before he relaxes. He knows his 40 pounds is insignificant, but he eases himself onto Barry’s shins gingerly, running his hand over his dick before murmuring a cantrip and pressing two fingers into himself.

A part of him—a juvenile, frenzied part—wants to launch himself forward and suck Barry off.  He could get off just from that, easily, and instead he’s taking this drawn out route, easing himself open. As frustrating as it is, there is a part of him thinking that any esteem he had with Barry is surely lost by now, and he should at least pretend to be a normal person while this is happening. He adds a third finger, glancing up, and _oh._

Barry’s got his eyes on him, jerking himself off deliberately. Being watched is always unexpected, and Davenport’s face heats up. This barely even feels good, but the thought of the human getting off on it makes his dick twitch. And admittedly, Barry looks good, too. The animalistic urge to just touch and fuck and get off as fast as possible fills him again, but the thought is cut off when Barry reaches a large hand forward, resting it on his upper back.

“There’s no need to rush,” he says, and Davenport snorts.

“You’re not going to hurt me, Bluejeans.”

Pointedly, he sinks down hard on his fingers, narrowing his eyes at the human. Barry looks flustered, and the hand on his back presses down on him, almost imperceptibly.

Davenport wants to say something riskier like, “but you can if you want,” but he keeps his mouth shut.

He normally doesn’t think for this part, he doesn’t have to. But he’s about to spend two months as this man’s superior, so he can’t just ask for what he wants. (What he always wants in bed: pain and fear, a lot of it. There’s something about large hands that he loves so much, something freeing and wonderful about jumping from terror in one moment to passionate tenderness in the next with little say, some gratifying release in giving up control that gentle affection can’t provide. He needs it.)

When he’s ready, or a little before, Davenport climbs forward, searching Barry’s face for hesitation. He doesn’t need this, especially if Barry’s unenthused.

But he’s not. His hands run down Davenport’s back, his sides, guiding his hips onto his lap. He’s large, but as Davenport eases down on him, it’s not unpleasant. He finds himself clenching his teeth, curling over, his mouth pressed against Barry’s jaw.

Should he kiss him? He’s never been huge on kissing, but when Barry bottoms out, he turns his head as if he’s checking, _checking_ \--

There’s something like a lump in the back of his throat when Davenport shifts his hips, slow and unsatisfying, and he catches Barry’s mouth with his. It’s a brief, open-mouthed kiss, not as intense as earlier, but certainly something. Barry jerks his hips up, making a cute gasping noise, and Davenport almost laughs. And he has a headache, like there’s someone screaming from the back of his skull, and he’s trying to focus on the now, on getting off, and on getting this sweet, normal, dude off, and on pretending that he's not horribly fucking up right now, that he doesn't know how _bad_ he is. This isn't what a captain should do; no pleasure is worth risking his status, his veneer of dignity. Sex isn't supposed to be with someone who you know, someone who will make you remember.

He presses down, curious if Barry’ll make him ride him for most of this. His cock is leaking, and he has the urge to touch himself, but that’s not what this is about, it’s not about feeling good, just about feeling a lot, feeling something. He can’t let himself lose control, not in front of someone he’ll see again. But he’s so _close,_ because Barry’s so good inside him, and there’s an insistent, pulsing ache between his legs. Close, too close. His head is quieter now, almost, and he closes his eyes to focus on the sensation.

Davenport’s riding him in earnest now, the muscles in his legs killing him, and every point of contact between him and Barry is so gentle, it aches, he wants more, he wants so much that he can just stop feeling, for _once—_

Barry’s hips stutter up against him, and when Davenport grinds down now he’s frantic, relishing the friction until he’s shaking, Barry jerking underneath him as his orgasm washes over him. Davenport pants, bending over Barry’s chest, and when he twitches off of him, Barry’s watching his face.

“Wait, didn’t you come?”

“It, um, it’s fine. It just takes a lot,” Davenport says, cursing internally. He shifts off Barry’s lap, but Barry puts a hand on his hip, face open.

It’s been a long time since he’s been looked at like this, been touched by someone who seems to actually care about getting him off. Davenport tries not to think about how repulsive he is. It would be more than enough to let himself be used and go get himself off in an empty bathroom.

He’s still hard and leaking so much, and Barry’s looking at it, reaching for him. He seems to mistake it for normal arousal, thumbing over the slick gathered at the head of Davenport’s cock and stroking him. His hands are so gentle it hurts, and Davenport lets out an undignified noise, rocking his hips into the motion.

Slowly, Barry wraps his hand around Davenport’s cock, his eyes searching his face.

“Is there something else I can do?” he asks, and Davenport hesitates, then grabs for Barry’s other hand, moving it from his hip to his neck.

There’s a moment where Barry stares, wide-eyed, but then he applies pressure, gently at first, and a fraction of Davenport’s head is appreciative that he knows about anatomy and isn’t crushing his windpipe, but fuck, he wants to be terrified, he wants it to hurt, he’s not even going to get _dizzy._

The grip on his cock tightens and twists unexpectedly, and Davenport whimpers, pressing himself down. “M-more, harder, please,” he breathes, the words catching in his throat as Barry tightens both grips on him, smiling warmly.

“It’s cute to hear you ask like that,” he says, and Davenport makes an unholy noise, bucking against him.

He wasn’t expecting-- but fuck, he’s so grateful, _fuck_. He doesn’t know how Barry picked up on it, but he’s not complaining. “Please…” he hisses, and Barry’s giving him what he wants, but he wants more, he always wants—

“If I had known you were so needy,” Barry says forcefully, and Davenport can feel his words, smell them, even though he can't parse it all. He’s fucking into Barry's hand, and it’s so _close,_ “and shit, I could do anything to you,” he’s so dizzy, it’s so good, he just needs more, more, _more_.

The grip on his neck constricts, and he’s mewing, his body twisting in Barry’s hands. It would be embarrassing, but he's close enough that he doesn’t care. Barry takes the initiative to lean in, breath heavy for a moment, before latching his teeth on the space between Davenport’s shoulder and neck, biting hard enough to push him over the edge. Davenport’s body tenses up, and he lets out a sob, feeling it coursing through him, bucking into Barry’s grip, then finally letting himself relax, his mind quieted and warmth thrumming through his body.

“Shit, sorry,” he says when it registers that he’s settled on top of the human. He raises himself up, uncomfortable.

“No, that was-- that was really good,” Barry says awkwardly. “I should probably-- I’m meeting my mother for brunch tomorrow...”

Davenport rolls off of him, and the action is undignified, pitiful.

“Yeah, sorry.”

He glances up while pulling on his trousers, and Barry’s looking at him like he wants to say something, his eyebrows knitted together. He breaks eye contact first, and Davenport almost shakes his head to get rid of the unpleasant feeling that washes over him.

He wants a shower.

“If you want to sleep here, I can wake you before the janitorial staff arrives,” Davenport says. He leans against the arm of the couch, eyeing Barry as he waits for a response. “You look tired, dude. I’ll be here anyway, I’m gonna drop those forms off first thing.”

He gets down from the couch and heads to the bathroom to clean up. When he returns, Barry’s asleep, his jacket laid over him.

Davenport looks at him for a moment. This guy’s life will be in his hands, and he can’t begin to wrap his head around it. He’s sore, still thrumming with energy. He’s about to crash, and it’ll ache more than usual, but that doesn’t matter.

 _One week,_ Davenport tells himself, and he curls up on a chair and wills the morning to arrive.

**Author's Note:**

> title from “structo” by flake music (now the shins)


End file.
